Trading Up (19 page)

A little farther down, on Christopher Street, was the pet store. Four puppies were rolling around in cedar shavings—a little brindled bulldog with huge brown eyes saw Patty and leapt at the glass. That’s the one, Patty thought, and went inside.

She felt a little bad about buying a puppy from a pet store—everyone said you shouldn’t. The puppies might be sick or badly formed and they were raised on pet farms, where cruel owners made the females have one litter after another, and then, when they were used up, killed them and fed them to the other dogs. But it wasn’t 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 103

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the puppies’ fault, Patty thought, and, if she didn’t buy one, God only knew what would happen to them. So she went in.

“I’d like to buy a puppy,” she said to the salesgirl.

“Do you know what kind?”

“I think the little stripey one. With the big eyes.”

“She’s a French bulldog,” the girl said, opening up the back of the Plexiglas box and pulling out the wriggling puppy. “Actually, she’s from Russia. But the breed is very rare. They’re hard to get here. We only got her because her coloring’s a little bit off.”

“Oh, I don’t care about her coloring,” Patty said, taking the puppy into her arms.

A few minutes later, she emerged from the store with a collar and leash, and little Triscuit in a soft-sided dog carrier. She reached the corner, and unable to contain herself any longer, bent down to take Triscuit out of the carrier. She leapt out like a missile, firmly attaching her teeth to Patty’s nose. Patty laughed—the puppy’s teeth were tiny and not terribly sharp—and as she did so, she heard a young woman’s voice demand, “Patty Wilcox, right?”

She looked up, and at first she thought the two women before her must be girls she’d met at some party, whose names she couldn’t remember. There was something familiar about the dark-haired one, and then Patty remembered with a shock that she was the same girl who’d been staring at her during that baseball tournament in July in the Hamptons. And then she realized that the girls had been standing outside of her building when she came out, and that they must have followed her. But why?

“You
are
Patty Wilcox,” the other one said. She was bigger than the dark-haired girl, taller, with red hair that was obviously dyed. The shorter one with the dark hair was, Patty saw, actually pretty, and in a flash Patty knew that they were that particular type of girl who comes from Brooklyn or New Jersey, who inevitably takes the short hop across the river to Manhattan to make it. And the dark-haired one, whose breasts were pushed up and shoved out of a tight-fitting sheer flowered shirt (you could see the lacy bra underneath), was obviously planning to use her looks to see where they might take her.

“I’m sorry,” Patty said, “but I don’t think I know you.”

“You don’t know us, but we know you,” the red-haired one said. She appeared to be in charge of the situation, while the dark-haired one had a look on her face that seemed to indicate she thought Patty was beneath her. “It’s about Digger,” she said.

Oh,
Patty thought, with some relief. They were fans, then. Two slightly crazy fans who had somehow found out where they lived and wanted to meet Digger. It happened sometimes, and the best thing to do was to be as polite and friendly as possible and then get away quickly. “If you want Digger, you should contact his record company. Ask to speak to someone in the publicity department . . .” 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 104

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The two women exchanged looks. There was something ominous in their demeanor, and Patty suddenly felt afraid.

“We don’t want publicity,” the dark-haired one said.

“But you know there’s going to be publicity anyway,” the redhead said. “The
Star
’s already called . . .”

“I’m sorry,” Patty said. “I have an appointment. I have to go . . .” The puppy was wriggling in her arms; it was as slippery as a little seal with its huge belly and tiny legs.

The red-haired girl took a step toward her. “We think you’re going to want to hear what we have to say. Marielle here took the day off from work.”

“I’m sorry,” Patty said. “But I can’t help you.”

“Oh, we don’t want your help,” the girl named Marielle said.

“Marielle’s going to be a big star. Like J. Lo,” the redhead said.

“I’m just trying to do the right thing. Sandy and I talked it over, and we figured the right thing was to tell you first,” Marielle said.

“Tell me what?” Patty cried.

“You’d better get used to the idea that you’re going to have to share your husband,” Sandy said. “Because Marielle here is going to have Digger’s baby.”

. . .

“Have you talked to your sister lately?” Selden asked casually, by way of making conversation.

“She’s hasn’t been answering her phone,” Janey said. “Maybe she went to Europe to meet Digger.”

It was Thursday evening, the night of the mayor’s Humanitarian Awards for Fashion. Janey was sitting in the bedroom at the small dressing table having her makeup done by a pretty Asian girl, while a stylist laid out three dresses on the bed.

In the midst of this small commotion, Janey’s eyes crinkled up at Selden with affection; she was enjoying the new feeling of getting ready for a big evening out with her husband.

“I suppose you’ll hear from her sooner or later,” Selden said, self-consciously looking through his drawers for his black bow tie. He was slightly uncomfortable about getting dressed in the middle of such extensive female preparations.

“Oh, Barbara,” Janey said to the stylist. “I think I’m going to wear the blue Luca Luca with the fur. Black is so over, don’t you think? I’ve decided it’s the color for assistants who don’t have any money, because black goes with everything else that’s black. Whereas, if you wear colors, it’s trickier, you really have to know what you’re doing with your wardrobe . . .”

“That is so true,” the makeup artist said.

“I thought black wasn’t a color,” Selden said. He leaned over to give his wife a 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 105

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kiss, but she turned her head away, so that his kiss ended up on her hair. “Darling, please,” she said. “My makeup . . .”

“Does that mean I can’t kiss you all night?” he asked.

“No,” the makeup artist said bluntly. “You can’t.”

“My husband doesn’t quite understand about going out in New York yet,” Janey said.

Selden thought he’d better go into the living room and fix himself a drink.

He put three ice cubes in a glass and poured a finger and a half of vodka on top.

He wasn’t sure if he could take another one of these evenings and it was only Thursday. He counted—this was the eighth party they’d gone to already that week, although Janey had pointed out that tonight was an easy night because it was the only party they had to attend. And it wasn’t just the parties he was weary of, but the endless preparations—hours of hair and makeup, trips to and from the designers to borrow dresses, people calling to arrange for cars, messengers coming in and out.

And it seemed to him that the goal was often nothing more than a photograph in Sunday’s
New York Post
or the society page of
Vogue
magazine. Selden couldn’t see the point, but he didn’t want to spoil Janey’s fun. When she was out on the town, there was a glow about her that she hadn’t had in Tuscany, and from the other room he heard the pleasurable peals of her laughter . . .

“Your husband is adorable,” he heard the stylist say, and then Janey’s response,

“Isn’t he? I got a good one, didn’t I?”

He sighed. Ever since they had returned from their honeymoon, she’d been attacking New York with the zeal of a mountain climber determined to reach the highest summit, with him, it seemed, relegated to a Sherpa in cummerbund and black tie. But he told himself that it couldn’t last for long; she’d grow tired of all the socializing and then she’d settle down and get pregnant and they’d have children.

They’d talked about getting an apartment right away on Park Avenue or Fifth, but he was beginning to think it might be a better idea to wait and buy a house in the suburbs, in Greenwich or Katonah—after all,
he
didn’t have to live in the city, and he couldn’t imagine raising their children there anyway . . .

In the next moment, however, his thoughts were interrupted by Janey’s triumphant, “Well?” and he turned around to see her looking resplendent in a simple off-the-shoulder gown. Her skin was still a tawny shade of gold from the summer, and the blue of the gown picked up the blue in her eyes, so they appeared to shine out of her face like sapphires; her hair was partially upswept with long curls hanging down the back of her neck in a seventies style—which, Selden remembered, Janey had told him was back. And suddenly all was forgiven.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” he murmured to her, suddenly pleased that they were, indeed, going out. Who he was and what his place was in the world 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 106

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came home to him; he was a hugely successful man with a gorgeous wife—he was what every man wanted to be, and he had everything he’d always imagined for himself.

In the elevator going down to the lobby, he took her hand and pressed up against her, being careful this time not to smudge her makeup, but he still felt her stiffen next to him. “You look
beautiful,
” he said again.

“Oh, darling,” she sighed. “Thank you.” There was a mirror in the elevator and she glanced in it with unself-conscious pleasure, arching one eyebrow. Then her hand went to her neck. “I should have some jewelry though,” she said.

“You don’t need jewelry,” he whispered, implying that she was beautiful enough without it.

“Oh, but I do,” she said, deliberately ignoring the insinuation. “I could have borrowed something from Harry Winston, but lots of times they send a guard, and I thought that wouldn’t be much fun for you.”

“It wouldn’t,” he laughed. “It’s bad enough sharing you with all of New York as it is . . .”

For a brief second, he thought that she rolled her eyes, but then the elevator doors opened and she became the laughing, loving wife, taking his hand as they walked to the waiting limousine. As she settled into the backseat, she said, “I’ve been thinking I should get an assistant. Barbara couldn’t believe I didn’t have one.

She says everyone has a P.A. And I know Mimi has one . . .”

“Who’s Barbara?” he asked.

“Selden! The stylist. She works with everyone, dresses all the movie stars when they come to town . . .”

“How much would it cost?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she shrugged, as if money were not a concern. “Maybe two hundred dollars a day.”

Two hundred dollars a day! he thought. That was $4,000 a month—nearly as much as his secretary was paid. Naturally, he wanted her to have everything she wanted, and it wasn’t the money per se that was the problem but his middle-class upbringing, which told him that since she did work, and it was business, she should pay for the assistant herself.

He had already discovered that his wife had an aversion to spending her own money, but nevertheless he ventured, “Of course, you can do whatever you want with your own money . . .”

“But I thought she’d work for both of us,” Janey said, turning to him with surprise. “She could do all kinds of things, like take your shirts to the dry cleaner . . .

You do need clean shirts, don’t you?”

He had always taken care of his own shirts, but was suddenly touched by her 18947_ch01.qxd 4/14/03 11:23 PM Page 107

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wifely concerns for him. Taking her hand and stroking the underside of her palm, he said, “If that’s all it’s about, we can talk about it.” But in a second, she appeared to have forgotten all about the conversation, and snatching her hand away, quickly began touching up her lipstick, for they had arrived at their destination.

An hour later, Selden Rose sat staring bleary-eyed at a plate filled with some kind of fish, his boredom beginning to border on irritation. Seated on his right was Janna Glancy, the editor in chief of
Vogue
. After they’d exchanged a few cursory comments, it had become immediately apparent that they had nothing in common, and Ms. Glancy, who was wearing sunglasses, had turned her back to him and was now in an animated discussion with the man to her right, a famous shoe designer.

Meanwhile, he’d discovered that the young woman on his left literally
couldn’t
speak—English anyway—and from what he’d been able to gather from the few snatches of Spanish that he recognized from school, she’d just arrived from a farm in Brazil to be in the new Victoria’s Secret campaign. Two seats away sat Mauve Binchely, whom he at least knew a little and who could certainly speak English, but the configuration of the large round table made it almost impossible to have a conversation with anyone other than the people sitting next to you.

And so he sat sipping ice water, pretending to take in his surroundings. The

“room” was really a large, cavernous space on East Forty-second Street across from Grand Central Station, which Selden guessed at one time might have been a bank.

It was filled with round tables of ten, and an effort had been made to make it look festive: There were leopard-print tablecloths topped by centerpieces of black and white flowers; the men were in black tie and the women were dressed in splendid gowns—for the obvious purpose of outdoing one another. And yet, despite the glamorous surface, as the evening dragged on there was an increasing weariness to the whole affair, as if the guests, hoping for something different, had been reminded once again that they’d attended a few too many of these parties already, and that in the end, nothing ever changed.

The exception, he thought, was his wife. Watching her from across the table, he marveled at the fact that as the evening progressed, she seemed to grow more and more animated. Her face glowed and her smile was warm and clearly inviting: A parade of beautiful people kept stopping by her seat to congratulate her on her recent marriage—at which point she would gesture and wave to Selden. And now, picking listlessly at his fish, he reminded himself that although he’d known Janey was “social,” he was only beginning to understand what that really meant. And he certainly hadn’t expected such a response when they’d first arrived and had walked down the red carpet . . .